Alone Together
by Principessa Di Morte
Summary: Season 7 AU. There's no cure for this - no spells, incantations, or magical fixes. There isn't an exorcism for Hell-induced insanity, and both brothers are starting to spiral as Sam continues to worsen.


_A/N: _'Ello there, guys. It's been a while. Thought I'd drop this little fic on here to let people know I'm not dead until I can get a longer one up and running. This story was originally written for a contest over on Deviantart. It can pretty much be set anytime after season six.

If you enjoy, I'd be forever grateful if you'd let me know. Whether you do or not, though, thanks for reading! Much love.

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

_Gone. They're all gone, Sam. You're completely alone. Sammy Winchester sat on a wall…_

What?

He blinks open his eyes to see Lucifer's face mere inches from his own. Sam rears back, wincing as his head knocks against the car's passenger window. Lucifer smirks, slouching in the driver's chair,hand on the wheel. Sam blinks, glancing frantically out the windows. They're not moving.

"He's gone." He doesn't have to say who.

"Shut up." Sam is in motion, rubbing his eyes with the hand not busy with unbuckling.

"He left. Finally realized how stupid it was to stay with a bag of crazy."

Sam doesn't reply, shoving open the door and practically falling out of it. A wheat fields starts a few feet away, and Sam quickly scans it, seeing no movement.

"I told you. He's not here."

"Dean wouldn't leave the Impala."

Lucifer chuckles smoothly. "What Impala?"

Sam looks down at the tan roof beneath his hand, jumping back as if burned.

"Wha-"

"You're deluding yourself, Sam. Remember? Dean left after your breakdown at the last motel. You hotwired this beauty and ran off alone again. Stopped to nap - here you are."

Sam stumbles back, heels catching in the dirt. He can't balance himself and falls, crashing into the wheat. Unable to catch his breath, he lays there for a moment, the cloud-dotted sky above him spinning. His turmoil seems out of place in the tranquil surroundings.

The far-off _ssh_ of an approaching car causes him to look up. Lucifer is smirking as him from the ride of the embankment.

"Sammy Winchester had a great fall…"

Sam struggles to right himself. The car draws nearer, setting him on edge. He claws at the ground as Nick laughs loudly.

"Aww… no one's there to pick him up."

Sam lunges off the ground and presses himself against the side of whatever car he jacked just as the beast on the road passes him. Arms thrown over his head, he breathes a sigh of relief but tenses even more than before at a loud, piercing squeal. _No!_ The beast is stopping. Collapsing, Sam clutches at the  
asphalt, trying futilely to drag himself away. Footsteps approach, and Sam curls into himself with a whimper. The steps come within a yard. There's a pause, and Sam waits for the ax (proverbial orotherwise) to drop.

Silence.

Then… "Sammy?"

A gentle tone. Sam forgets how to breathe for a moment.

"Sam." The voice is so wary. "It's me."

Sam dares a peek from under his arms. He forces back a sudden sob.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, man. Dean." As if he's talking to a child. "Can you stand?"

Hesitantly, Sam nods. Dean reaches out a hand. There's a moment where everything seems to freeze. Their eyes meet. Trust passes.  
Sam grasps Dean's hand and shuts his eyes as he's hauled up. Even so, a wave of vertigo hits him as he stands. Dean is there, hands firmly gripping his arms.

"Take your time."

He breathes in. Out. In… a nod.

"Careful."

"_Dean_."

"Okay, okay. Sorry. Can't blame me. You back now?"

"I'm sorry."

"Shut up." They're at the Impala's passenger door. Sam leans heavily against the car as Dean pulls the doo open. He stands there as Sam slides in, then all but sprints to the driver's side, gliding into his seat.

"That was a beaut, eh?"

There's no reply. Dean looks over and sees Sam already nodding off. He starts the car up and allows his smile to fade, hands beginning to tremble as his adrenaline drains and the day catches up to him. This was… bad. Sam's wandered off before, but never so far; never like this. Things had been good. Dean had even been… hopeful. Sure, they'd had a small hiccup when Sam couldn't come into the hotel room because of a particularly detailed hallucination, but they'd gotten over it and he'd been fine. Then Dean had woken up at 6 AM to an empty bed and neighbors freaking out  
over a stolen car. He'd jumped in the Impala and peeled out of the lot.

It had taken 38 minutes to find the missing car, parked haphazardly on the side of the highway. And _a convertible, Sammy, really? _He'd thought he was prepared. They'd dealt with it before, this was just…

He'd thought wrong.

Scared Sam he can handle. Space is disconcerting, but nothing new. Aggravated, confused, even angry Dean can deal with. But this… this wholly defeated, resigned, cowering, Sam… Winchesters are stubborn. They don't give up. Sam hadn't even thought to run away, let alone fight. And that scares Dean. Beyond scares - it paralyzes him. Because this is new. And it's bad. Sam's getting worse.

Dean jerks his attention back to the road as an oncoming car blares its horn. He's drifted over the line. Cursing, Dean spins the wheel back to the right. Instinctively, he glances over to check on Sam. And hits the brakes.

His brother is pressed back into the seat, face nearly matching the shade of his teeth, which are exposed in a terrified grimace. Dean reaches a hand out, across the seat. Sam shoves it away and Dean pulls back, trying hard not to feel hurt.

"Sammy. Come on, man, come back."

The younger Winchester doesn't reply, panting for breath.

"Please, Sammy. Focus on me. You're okay. You're all right, Sam."

Sam bows over, hands twisting into his hair. Dean watches helplessly as his brother begins to hyperventilate. He unbuckles and slowly moves closer, keeping his hands out and open. His voice comes out raw and vulnerable.

"Sam. It's me. It's Dean. You know me, man. Listen, please, Sam. Sammy."

Dean's hand comes into contact with Sam's shoulder. The reaction is instantaneous and violent. Dean finds his arm suddenly wrenched at an unnatural angle and Sam's fist swinging towards his face. It stops centimeters from his right cheekbone.

"Oh g—I—Dean?—I…"

"Ssh, Sam. I know."

Dean settles his hand more firmly on Sam's shoulder, gripping it. Sam's eyes meet his, hazel to green, turmoil swimming in both sets.

"Dean…"

He turns back to the wheel and hits the gas.

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

"I can't do this."

It comes out of nowhere as they're casing an allegedly haunted house. Dean, who's taken point, halts and pivots.

"What?"

"I can't do this." There are tears pooling in his eyes, and Dean almost clamps his hands over Sam's mouth to keep from hearing what he's going to say. "Not while I'm…" He lets his gun hand go limp, the other carding through his hair. "I can't tell what's real, Dean. I thought I could, but I was wrong. One of these days I'll get us both killed."

Dean turns away for no more than two seconds to breathe. When his gaze returns to Sam, it is full of nothing but understanding.

They leave together.

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

It's stupid, really.

They aren't even on a case—Sam was just going out to buy food. And as always, everything went bad. The freakin' market was literally a block away. Dean was waiting in their semi-permanent motel room, surfing channels, when he heard the horn. Which wouldn't have worried him, really. But then it was followed by a crash, and a shrill scream. He'd practically bust down the door in his haste to get outside. He'd instantly seen Sam, lying face down on the sidewalk not twelve feet away, blood already pooling beneath his head. Dean hadn't even had the breath to swear—he was by his brother's side before anything really registered, phone out. His fingers had dialed 9-1-1 with no message from his brain, and then suddenly there were men in white pulling Dean away from the very anchor of his existence.

Now here they are, rushing by the blank walls. Dean is left behind imposing glass doors, scarlet still glistening on his hands.

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

Sam is only aware for a few moments. He's moving—fast, things blurring by before he can identify them. There are stranger's eyes on him, their hands keeping him still as his chest begins heaving.

Then in the corner, a familiar gaze… but not a comforting one.

"All the King's horses… and all the King's men…"

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

"Your brother is awake."

That's all it takes to send Dean flying. But he barely gets two feet before there's a strong hand on his arm stopping him.

"But we need to talk."

The doctor leads him to a small, confined office.

"He's… not in the best shape. The first time he awoke, we had to put him under sedation before he hurt a staff member or himself. Even now, drugged as he is, he's easily agitated. You noted no previous psychosis, so we're concerned this may be due to the head wound."

Dean leans over in his seat, face going to his hands. He quickly sits up again, forcing a weak smile.

"Sorry - I thought I wrote it down. I'm a little… stressed. Sam's got PTSD. It's pretty bad."

The man's eyebrows furrow. "The disorder may well have been exacerbated by the blow to Sam's head. He'll be kept under careful watch, and may need to stay longer than we first estimated."

"Yeah. Whatever you say, Doc," comes the weary response, it's speaker's eyes closing briefly.

The doctor stands, coming around the desk and laying a hand on Dean's forearm.

"I am sorry. I know this can be difficult." He rises. "I'll take you to your brother now - he's been saying your name."

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

"You may want to have a seat."

Dean sinks into the chair behind him. "I'm guessing this… isn't good news."

"Not exactly. We have reason to believe your brother was misdiagnosed."

The gaze that cuts up to the doctor is sharp, trying to decide whether to be accusing or not.

"By you?"

"No." Simple, non-defensive. "By whoever told you he had PTSD. I'm afraid his psychosis goes much deeper than that."

Dean's sure the dismay shows on his face. But he'd prepared for this, right? There was always that chance… yet something in his heart refuses to bow.

"How bad? I mean, it's curable, right?"

"It's treatable. There is a difference."

"You didn't answer my first question."

For the first time, the doctor hesitates, shuffling through papers on his desk.

"Even since he's been in the hospital - just eight days - we've seen degradation. That's not a good sign."

"So… what now?"

"We have a psychiatric ward, but it's meant to be temporary. If you'd allow a recommendation, I have a friend who runs a facility very close to here. It's high quality and she's very generous with payment options…"

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

"It all leaves us here, Sammy. Somewhere I'd… imagined, but hoped we'd never be. But you know what? This doesn't change anything, okay? We're still together. This won't last forever."

Dean has his hand on Sam's head, thumb constantly brushing back the hair that falls over his temple. Sam lays still in the bed, skin clammy; eyes lazily tracking something in the corner. It's a calm day.

"You and me, Sammy. That's how it's always been, and that's how it is now. You hear me?"

Dean's hand stays where it is, thumb never stopping, even as he leans his head lower, forehead to Sam's chest. His heart throbs, and Dean feels his own keeping pace with the overtaxed organ.

"I'm right here, Sammy. I'll always be right here."

His voice is more gravelly than normal, a tightness in his throat as his free hand grabs his brother's.

"I'm gonna fix this, Sammy. I promise."

**SN-SN-SN-SN**

It's a haze of red now, interspersed with leather and hazel, and that's all he focuses on. But there's another presence, somewhere in the corner, always pulling.

_"Couldn't put Sammy together again. . ."_


End file.
